"visons" poems
In this tightly interwoven
tapestry of
silks and cottons
softness upon stems
an intricately-boned
journey
manifesto of life
I find myself in
patchwork landscapes
of ochre and
rust turning
turquoise
earthern shades
of cumin and cardamom
cloves and coriander
piquant red of paprika
alighting the senses
My fingers reach out
to sift the powder
to crush
fragrant fronds
of fresh basil and oregano
upon the blueprint of tips
allow their scent
to permeate my skin
and infuse tissue
of tongue and lips
and I seem to be
in this
bustling marketplace
my blood afire like
dried ghost pepper
searing and brightening
all flavors
fenugreek and asafoetida
to soothe the ache
of emptiness
chervil and chive
to get juices flowing
I want to slit open
vanilla pods
get at the beans
revel in their essence
wear it all over me
In this realm of spice
and paradise
I am flying,
a magic carpet of dreams
unrolling before me
like an unfurled flag
of new existence
The sounds of hagglers,
fading in raw visons
of shiny apple colors
olives piled high
textures of smooth cherry
budded broccoli
of walnut wrinkles
aroma of guava
Music takes over
I am in a cloud of
oud and lute
syncopated tabla
bells and rumbling
taut skin drum beats
Or is that long low whir
simply my heart purring
to the cadence of
freedom's call?
I only know
that in the whisk
of a second's split
I will savor the flight
and also the
fall
May 6, 2017
May 6, 2017 at 4:51 PM UTC
Time aged in millenniums breath, eternities
Upon it did the juncture's of a breach offer
A glimpse in others minds of reality's thoughts.
Whirlpools of confused visons, then calm.
To walk on the moments of each surge that
Washed upon realties exhalation. I talked to
Younger versions and like a paradox, repeated
Reflections I saw ourselves in memory and word.
There is an etched pathway of conscious thought
With each decision does a new pool open its
Moment creating fresh essence now as the other
But diverged time is a ripple that always falls.
Jan 4, 2016
Jan 4, 2016 at 6:11 PM UTC
It's happening. I'm back
again rapping
in my back room.
Relaxing while I'm slapping on some vinyl
records mastering the craft
of mashing styles
again.
Miles of ink and piles of pens.
Keeping our song alive 'til the end of time.
Turn it back
and begin again
because the cycle of our souls essence is infinite...
Clouds are moving by so fast
reminds me of an acid trip.
Futuristic visons reflecting that of past experience.
Back to the holy sacrament of living passionate.
I think we all should stand on this land
we're given hand in hand.
Hands together.
It's today.
We gotta love melodically.
From all sides turn
to God.
Then you're not stuck
in the same same old spot.
Over your head and your mind
under a rock.
So what do we do?
We say we have to sit on the bank.
But in reality we need to collaborate
and meditate.
Hands Together.
Falling on a cloud while I'm clapping and singing
that it's common law to love.
I'm feeling this all the while
I'm coming out of the outer realm
of happiness, of consciousness.
I'm glad this is a life that I can live to gain
A Consciousness.
Nov 30, 2013
Nov 30, 2013 at 1:35 PM UTC
NEUROTRANSMITERS
TRANSPORTSHIFTSLIDE
EMASTICATIONATRIX
Visons & Ratraces
DISCOMBOBULESBIAN
ANTICONTRAFICTION
Mar 24, 2010
Mar 24, 2010 at 11:17 PM UTC
_
We’ve built the wall surrounding our castle—
Slowly becoming each other’s demise.
Sounds of slamming doors and shattering glass pierces the silence.
What an inconvenience this life has become.
The pendulum that once swung has taken its final swing.
Envious cries cutting through infinite silence.
Visons of thieving wolves that capture our castle—
Removing delicate, intricately sewn lies
What an inconvenience this life has become.
_
Jun 4, 2019
Jun 4, 2019 at 3:14 PM UTC
Inside your head there
Are no
Horrors or
Visons anymore
Only the pickly
Sweet and sour
Silence of
The grave
Sep 9, 2010
Sep 9, 2010 at 5:54 PM UTC
Blurred visons smeared across the mdnight sky.
Dark shadows casted and witches on the fly.
Sickos and psychos move quietly through the unseen.
Screams echo beyond the twisted swamp grass.
Blades of gory terror, stained blood on the broken glass.
Tar papered shacks with wood stove chimney stacks.
My hometown roots lye down deep within the swampy hollows.
Where preachers preach but nobody follows.
This is the place where bodies stay cold.
Watch where you walk and do what your told.
Apr 17, 2017
Apr 17, 2017 at 5:36 AM UTC
"You should be a poet,"
They said to me
In a darkened room
One Friday night
I smiled and said
"Maybe I should"
Deep down I knew
I always would
But at the time,
I did not speak
The words that fell
Upon my lips...
So looking back
Hear my decree,
"That we are all masters
Of poetry"
Only those that turn,
To pen and ink
Are those condemned
To always think
To live in visons,
To fantasize,
Words the burden
Our voice must bear
Whilst their art forms
On lifes canvas...
"The white of paper
A poor substitute."
Apr 15, 2013
Apr 15, 2013 at 8:52 AM UTC
Dorthy flew over the rainbow many times.
Along the way, her and I met eye to eye.
Viewing each other's memories through these visons
Connected through eyes and spirit...
We join forces and look for beautiful skies.
Even Oz is full of it's storms and battle zones.
As Dorthy returned the second trip over...
The evil Queen tried to steal her head.
However, Dorthy was smarter than that.
She defeated insanity and with her head still ******* on
She avoided someone stealing her unique and valuable vanity.
Seeing these memories I see inside myself.
Through countless times I almost lost my head.
I almost lost myself in the fields of poppies
I almost fell asleep.
Still awake, I ran with Dorthy past these fields...
Past the so-called beautiful and perfect city of Oz
and we found our own sane paradise.
In the uninviting mountains of high promises
We climbed and endured to enter this beautiful place and paid our own price.
Along the way we found others
In our same dilemma.
Instead of roaming to some insane guy posing like a wizard
We became our own magic and traveled to our own lands of solutions.
Now people come to us seeking the same as we once sought.
However, we tell them to have a seat in paradise.
Enjoying the same days and skies as me and Dorthy of Oz
earned a stay within it's walls
and the warmth and an ill-faded disease and condition
once dubbed "undefinable Happiness"
This perfect disease...
We have now truly caught.
Nov 9, 2017
Nov 9, 2017 at 8:02 PM UTC
on the night of first meet she was the fair goddess of the moon
and i was nothing but the group she walk on
oh the sorrow of the visons i have
she dines in the underworld with death
wait for me my love
i am close to her now as my live fades
wait for me my goddess
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 11:59 AM UTC